


the, uh, idylls of the king, or: five things that happened while Loki was in charge

by goblindaughter



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgard (Marvel), BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Gen, Marvel Jotunn Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 20:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblindaughter/pseuds/goblindaughter
Summary: Asgard under Loki. Statecraft, what is it good for?





	the, uh, idylls of the king, or: five things that happened while Loki was in charge

**Author's Note:**

> I say "back on my bullshit" like I'm ever off it. Can you tell I got way too invested in Jotunheim?

**1.**

"This is all for us?"

"Yes."

"This is _all_ for us?"

"Emphasizing different words won't change the answer," says Odin, King of Asgard, Protector of the Nine Realms, with what Bragi (not, he is quick to remind people, _the_ Bragi, merely _a_ Bragi), head of the Asgard Theatre Company and bane of hungover actors , thinks is suspicious mildness. 

But if His Majesty is really serious about the truly massive figure on the treasury order in front of him, he doesn't see why he should ask questions. If he loses it, and his second-in-command Magda finds out, she'll slaughter him. Creatively. They're not exactly impoverished—people really like bawdy comedies and the odd bloody, romantic tragedy; that one about the Valkyrjur always does great numbers—but they're also not rolling in it. With this kind of money, they could do one of those weird high-concept song-and-dance things half his employees are pushing for these days. They could push out an original instead of more adaptations. They could add more seating and fix that damn draft in the props room. 

"Alright," says Bragi. And then, because there's got to be a catch, "What do I have to do?"

"Well," says the king, as if he was waiting to be asked that, "I've been thinking I should do something more for my poor son than that statue...."

Bragi is later going to regret how quickly he assented to _total creative control_. But that's later.

* * *

**2.**

"Heimdall? _And_ Lady Sif? You're joking."

"I'm honest as the day is long, I swear! Both tossed out of town on their ears."

"What does himself say they've done?"

"He doesn't. Smells, if you ask me—"

"Shhh!"

"Who's going to be watching? Heimdall's gone."

"Actually, who _is_ going to be watching? Someone's got to be in charge of the Bifrost, right?"

"Heard it was Skurge."

"I wouldn't trust Skurge to watch his own balls while he pissed, what's the old man thinking?"

"Could be just a rumor, hasn't been announced yet."

"Maybe he's not. Thinking. The Odinsleep, maybe he didn't...you know, come all the way back."

"Or maybe it's some kind—"

" _Shhh,_ hush up and look alive, boys. That meeting's let out and the brass look fit to be tied."

* * *

**3.**

"WHAT DO YOU _MEAN_ , HE'S HALVED THE FLEET'S BUDGET?"

* * *

**4.**

Lene's only a cupbearer, and a very junior one at that, but she knows how to read a room. And this particular room appears to be about to burst a collective blood vessel. 

The palatial council chamber, with its gold-chased mosaiced floor and vaulted ceiling, hums with tension so thick she keeps feeling as though she should be ducking to avoid walking into strands of it, as if it were a web an orb spider spun across a forest path.

The king is holding council to determine what to do about the Vanir declaring independence. Or what not to do, really. He doesn't seem to think stopping them is important. In fact, he has just suggested withdrawing the remaining Asgardian garrison in Vanir territory, and officially recognizing the new government, upon which Lene poured him more watered wine, because he picked up his cup in that certain way which means he expected there to be more left and now wants a refill. (A more senior cupbearer would know that the king did not always have that particular tic. This particular tidbit is why a _junior_ cupbearer happens to be at such an important meeting, while her superiors are all reassigned elsewhere.) Also, because it was do something useful or flee before the missiles started flying, metaphorically. 

"Your Majesty," says the Minister of War, whom Lene thought was going to have an apoplexy when the king announced the budget cuts, "Vanaheim has been under Asgardian protection for thousands upon thousands of years—"

"And now it's time they stood on their own," says the king. "Can a hen brood over her eggs forever?" Privately, Lene thinks that maybe the Vanir should not like to be compared to an egg laid by Asgard, but she's here to hold a big jug, not give her opinions. 

"What would Prince Thor think?" asks the Minister of Economics. 

"Is Thor king yet?" asks His Majesty, with a softness that belies the glittering edge in his eyes.

At which point Lene sidles over to the side door and frantically signals the kitchen staff to bring in the snacks before the _real_ salvos can start.

* * *

**5.**

Asgard is too hot, and too bright, and too full of Asgardians. 

However. Hjordis daughter of Hjordis, Lady Regent of Jotunheim, is not one to shy away from a little discomfort. Not when it comes to the good of her kingdom. She would not have her position, for example, had she not endured and won a battle royale between her scrum of cousins (and every midwinter party after Hedda's going to grump about getting her knee broken, but she shouldn't have gone low with her mace, so there). This should be simple. Just a visit. Talk some, be polite, don't stab anybody or get assassinated. 

Well, fine. Not that simple.

It feels strange. Mighty Asgard, which killed her uncle the king and drove the Jotunn armies off Midgard, and here she is, having been welcomed through on the rebuilt Bifrost and conveyed in utmost secrecy to the palace. 

Honestly, she wasn't expecting to be allowed to come at all, rumors about Vanaheim or no. It was a bit of a shot into the sun, one she mainly took because people are getting antsy that she's holding down an unblooded child's claim to Jotunheim's throne, and want to fight for it themselves. If she can get Asgard to give back what it stole, nobody will dare challenge her, and then she can crown her cousin and go back to being a warrior. Gods fucking willing. 

The chamber Odin meets her in is decorated in that gold-chasing-on-everything way Asgardians seem to like (they never met anything they didn't want to make shiny; what's wrong with basalt?), with a wide window that looks out over the city. Taking up a good third of the view is a great big statue of a man in a horned helmet, which she is almost certain wasn't there when her uncle tried to invade, with a vaguely familiar face.

Ah. Yes. _Dear_ cousin Loki. Stolen, twice a traitor, twice dead. She wonders if he ever knew about his half-sister. Probably not. Asgard only pays attention to Jotunheim to make sure the oh-so-scary monsters stay in their place. (It's not surprising that the statue looks completely Asgardian.)

He stands there, the really-not-formerly-an-enemy king. To get the cliche out of the way right up front, she really did think he'd be taller, for an Asgardian. Maybe it's because he's so old. He just looks like someone's grandfather. Like she could just reach out and grab his skull and squeeze. But of course he's not that easy a mark. And besides, she promised herself, and her council, and most importantly her cousin, that she'd behave on this visit. _It's very, very, very important, so look sharp and talk sharper._ He smiles at her. Hjordis does not smile back.

"King of Asgard." She inclines her head not an _inch_ further than respect demands. 

"Lady Regent. You are most welcome to Asgard. I cannot say how glad I was to receive your message. I would ask how you fare, but I'm afraid I know—Asgard was remiss in not offering our apologies and aid at once." Was it. Funny how he says that and still hasn't done anything. "Please, sit." She sits. There is iced wine available, but she does not touch it. 

"That is good to hear, Odin King. You may console yourself. The restoration efforts go well." That was _slightly_ sharper than is probably prudent, but he opened himself up to it. 

"Excellent. And how is Princess Ragnheiðr ? We have heard so little of her."

"As well as she can be. Courageous, for one so young. Already she hardly needs me." That's less embroidering and more wholesale tailoring, but she's not about to admit how weak a grip the girl has. It's not as if it's her cousin's _fault_ —she's barely six hundred years old, there's not a child that age alive who could handle Jotunheim current state on her own—it's just that the facts look bad.

"Only two hundred years, and then she will be crowned." Laufey's daughter, on the throne, fucking finally. Considering what happened to her uncle's _other_ child, they really, really need that. 

"My, really? How time flies—it feels as though she was a baby only yesterday. Tell me, is she much like her father?"

"More like her mother." General Ragnhild, different from Prince Loki's mother as the nights of the Fimbulwinter are long. Hjordis has always been fond of all her aunts, but she has to admit, Aunt Ragnhild really came out ahead. Before she died fighting to keep the border settlements safe, anyway. (Aunt Nal, on the other hand, hasn't been seen for years, but she's too slippery to actually be dead. Probably.) Hjordis touches the data crystal on the back of her vambrace and an image springs to life: the princess locked in combat with her tutor, ice longsword in her hands, a fierce joyous light in her red eyes. King Odin looks long at it, and for just a moment she could swear he looks...what? Before she can quite figure it out, the expression is gone. 

"So very grown up," he says, "But I am sure you did not come here simply to show me my future neighboring monarch."

"Indeed not. I came to ask a favor." The word rankles. "When the princess takes her throne, I want you to return the Casket of Ancient Winters."

He considers her. A long moment, a second. "We would, of course, need something in return."

"I notice you haven't said no."

"There's been bad blood between us for too long. My son Loki was supposed to heal the breach, you know—" He looks mistily off into the middle distance, rather theatrically, she thinks, but what the hell, maybe that's just how Asgardians on. "I wanted it to be a golden age, for both our kingdoms." _Bull_ **_shit_ **, Hjordis thinks, but does not reply. "But without him here, we must do it in his memory, instead. I will give th Princess the Casket, as I would have given it to him when he took the throne." And here comes the catch. "You'll have to agree that the Casket will not leave your realm or be used as a weapon—'

"Done." If _that's_ all? Done. Jotunheim is enough for them. The beam of the Bifrost did untold damage, not to mention they're _still_ picking up the pieces from the war anyway. All the Casket's power is going to have to go towards the structural rot. But he knows that already, of course. 

"—and invite us to the coronation."

"Certainly." Hjordis smiles, showing every one of her ice-white, razor-sharp teeth. There's got to be another trick in there somewhere. Or three. No matter. It will be centuries yet, and she can play tricks with the best of them. "Shall we get all that in writing, Your Majesty?"

Later, when she leaves, there is the tiniest recording sigil attached to her left bracer—but Hjordis doesn't notice. 

  
  



End file.
